coming of age means you have to do the work. you get no help, you never will you have to figure it out alone and if you say something back, people think you’re weak.

coming of age means you will never be enough. your parents will think you should do more your teachers will think you can get better grades your friends will think you need to be more fun your mind will think you need to be better.

coming of age means you have to find yourself. you must search through a sea of pebbles to find you broken one. and yet you must deal with everything else while you don’t know what’s going on inside.

coming of age means no one is here to rescue you. you have to save yourself or you will drown.

coming of age means no one is here to protect you. you will learn things they lied to you about when you were younger you will do things that will bruise you because no one was there to tell you not to do it

and yet we do it all with a smile on our face.

I am the ghost of the first mother.

I guide my daughters through their lives, helping them grow. When they themselves have daughters, I help them raise them, to learn to let them go when it is time. Then those daughters are guided onto the path with me that will lead them to raising their own kids.

On and on, the cycle goes.

Occasionally, I assist a father as well.

They are EXTREMELY reluctant.

I once had a father that almost killed his daughter’s boyfriend. I convinced him not.

But that is a story for another time.

Time for another raising.

I descend into the city, towards a hospital. I have already arranged the appointment.

The woman, no older then 25, is alone. She cuddles her baby, talking to it softly. No… singing.

I swoop in the window. She looks up and smiles.

“So, the newest arrival in the world,” I say, “what is her name?

“I’d like to name her Tal” she says.

“Beautiful. You accept my guidance?”

“Yes.”

“That is good.”

And so, Tal became my new ward, along with Jennet, her mother. She was a quiet baby, always taking the world in. When she was 5, she was a very happy and funny girl. But when she came of age the first time, at age ten, (double digits, so I consider it a coming of age!) she became quiet again. She was serious, with bursts of laughter. As she became older, she began to be more solemn, with the occasional smile. She was a fierce girl, and often felt as though she was quite strong. She was right. In short bursts, she could easily fight with her hands, and win as well.

At age 11 she had her second coming. She had her first boyfriend. First love. Oh, and first breakup. Hayden did not know when to quit bugging her.

Now she is 12. I still have a ways to go with her, but I enjoy it. There is still the first House, the first Husband, first Baby.

After that I shall move on to her child, but she shall stay in my mind. When she dies, if she is a good mother and grandmother, possibly great grandmother, I shall hire her to help me watch over a family.

Ah, raising a child… such interesting things happen. I quite enjoy the process!*

*but then again, I’m there to guide. I’m not actually the mother, paying for the growing kid’s clothes and food and doctor and dentist fees.”

⚠️DISCLAIMER⚠️: the song Daylight by David Kushner sets the mood for this story. If you want, you can listen to it when reading!

I guess I thought graduating from one of the top schools would make me feel complete again. I was wrong.

For the past months of university, my friends were going to parties and actually enjoying themselves. I don’t know if I could even call them friends. I knew them, but not well. My roommate, Jordie, dropped out just before graduation. No one knows where he went. I remember high school like it was just yesterday. I cried myself to sleep every night at just the thought of mom- I don’t tell just anybody about her. Only people I trust. I used to trust dad, but he’s gone off the deep end.

Why get into my recent depression when we can talk about my childhood? I only have one strong memory; the rope swing. Every summer, the entire family, including relatives, would come up to our lakeside house. We would float down the river all day on floats bigger than the car. We would slip on the mid, laughing and catching each other. Each day getting 3d degree sunburns. I remember looking up to my older cousins and thinking that life couldn’t get better.

I was right. It could only get worse. When I was 13, my mom was diagnosed with cancer in her kidney. It didn’t take long for the doctors to tell us a death date. She would only live a few more months. If I had any hope left, it was crushed. I ran out of the hospital. All the way home and buried my face into my moms pillow.

Dad didn’t come home that. He didn’t come home the next the night either. Or the next. He stayed at the hospital for weeks with no sleep. I didn’t know how I would live without mom. I still don’t. People tell me to move on, but I don’t know how. They give me sad smiles. Pity. They don’t know the pain. I do.

After moms death, I got into skateboarding. I started sleeping more and my grades slipped. My friend group left me. Everyone looked at me like I was an animal in an enclosure. I wore black instead of bright colors.

This summer, I plan on returning to our lake house. This time without the rest of the family. It would be healing experience. That’s what I hoped.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….………………………………

I waded through the water. It was getting deeper by the step. I didn’t remember it being so deep. When it got up to my shoulders, I started to swim. Finally, I reached the steep bank. I climbed the muddy bank, nearly slipping. I caught myself because my mom wasn’t there to catch me. The rope was still there, but the wood part you sit on was gone. After a few minutes of searching, I found it. I reattached it to the rope. I took a deep breath. I looked behind me to see if my mom really wasn’t there. I gripped the rope and pulled it back as far as it could. I looked down at the water below. I held on and pushed out. My legs instinctively wrapped around the swing. I felt the wind on my cheeks. When I reached the highest point, I let go and plunged into the water below. It was cold with dead memories. In the water, I saw everyone. My aunts and uncles, my cousins and even my dad. In front of everyone was my mom. She was smiling. I swam up to the surface for air, but everyone was still there. Everyone except my mom. They wrapped me with a warm towel and let me onto a big floaty. We all floated down the river. We were all smiling.

the moment you open your eyes the world will awaken with you

the crown of fire upon your head burning along with the innocence that comes with childhood

a shining silver tiara adorned among those long braids

you’ve wondered for years of who, or what you are you have lived many lives

are you a warrior, a fighter of justice? or are you a princess, and bringer of peace?

if not, then what? a star? a shadow?

does coming of age mean knowing all the answers?

does that mean being able to discern the right from the wrong?

tell me, darling, how does this work?

The wind sifted through the trees creating the familiar, earthly sound that normally would have made Rayne aware of the breath entering his lungs. The sound of the river flowing endlessly over logs and through debris would usually remind him of the water slipping through his toes, helping the fog leave his wakeful mind.

Today, though, the woods did none of those things

There wasn’t just a fog in his mind now, today it was a smog. It came from a factory placed inside his cerebral producing the aimless stream of confusion, just as aimless as the stream in front of him. His solitary silence was interrupted by a croak. The frog stared at him with its naturally clueless looking eyes, it’s skin shining after having just hopped out of the water. It quickly left the rock it had landed on, it’s strong legs propelling it back into the water. That frog had once been an egg. Soon it had to have hatched, becoming a tadpole among many others, to then become a frog. It was a process that, while gradual, had clear, physically definite stages. Rayne wished his stages could be that definite. He wondered if that frog ever felt like a tadpole. If it ever felt as blind and helpless as it was when it was merely an egg. Or if just the thought would be too much a threat to its livelihood, a constant battle of the most alert. A butterfly swooped down and landed on his knee. It’s colors were mesmerizing, a combination of blues and greens all outlined in black. It stayed for a moment, it’s wings relaxing and moving steadily in the breeze. But just like the frog, it left as soon as it arrived, fluttering off in all its grace. Like the frog, the butterfly was once something else. A caterpillar, soon enclosed in a cocoon. Not long after it would escape the chrysalis, newly born with a pair of wings and a world to explore. Once again, Rayne longed for that definitive change in oneself. That switch that seemed to go off in these creatures mind that went from crawling and swimming to flying and jumping. The time when those creatures were made aware that now it was time to fend for itself. That now it was of age. Rayne wondered when he would get that feeling that he was a new, fledgling adult. Where he felt he could run instead of walk, speak instead of mumble. He longed for it, but his heart aches when he thought of leaving his innocence behind. To leave behind the moments spent defying his parents’ rules with his friends or the hours wasted sitting by this river would bring him a sorrow he never wanted to face. Did he have to leave it all behind? It was then that it occurred to him how the butterfly’s body still resembled that of a caterpillar. That the butterfly still ate the leaves off the trees just as it once had. The frog’s behind had telling structure of the tail it once had. It still swam in the stream where it was born. Maybe, he wouldn’t have to leave everything behind. It would be different, sure, just like the striking difference of the wings on the butterfly and the legs on the frog, but it would make him stronger. It would allow him to see a new world, but still come back down to his home. He now truly heard the wind sifting through the leaves, and felt the water run across his feet. Finally, the smog left his mind, the factory having been shut down, leaving a fog easily swept away by the careful breeze. Finally, his mind was clear again.

growing up is strange you think people are born to show kindness until you get taunted for being you then you realize people aren’t what they seem

you think your friends will be there for life until they stab you in the back then you realize friends come and go

you think that your parents are the perfect love until they divorce when you’re fifteen then you realize perfect love doesn’t exist

you think that boy is telling the truth until he fucks you and never speaks to you again then you realize that boys are liars

you think you’ll be rich by the time you’re twenty until you have twenty dollars and can’t get hired then you realize money doesn’t grow on trees

you think you’ll cuddle with your mom forever until she gets a boyfriend then you realize that even moms lose interest

i don’t know something about it growing up is just strange

Unused lockers line my high school hallways. Appropriately named, since everyone is high. Eighteen has never felt like more of a curse: here I stand straddling the fence of adulthood with one foot still firmly planted in this prison they call school. Expectations are readily dumped on me and I take them without complaint. I want my independence after all, and don’t mind the weight. What I do mind are condescending assumptions and nagging reminders of my naïveté. How can society encourage me to be an active citizen and vote, then blame our crumbling country on the shoulders of the youth? We don’t deny the part we play—I will readily attest to the ignorance of our generation—but open your eyes! We’re not all the same. For goodness sake, we are stereotyped enough as we wander through four years of misery. Graduation soon will come, followed swiftly by my nineteenth birthday. But freedom I will taste but only briefly, for then I will be hated along with all the other college kids. A career, perhaps, will make you happy? No, I’m not a gold digger or a workaholic—I have real values and morals! What else must I do to be respected by you? I know; I’ll start a family. A beautiful, loving family of my own. Oh, that’s not how you raised your kids? What am I doing wrong? See, I want to say, I want listen, learn, and grow! Constantly I’m saving money: Pennies, nickels, dimes. Soon retirement will be upon us, and we want to be secure. We’ve made solid financial decisions throughout our life, so we won’t have to work until we die. We’ll travel a bit, visit our children, and read the books we never got around to. And on my deathbed I’ll ask, “Did I ever come of age?” Please say yes, just for my sake, and don’t leave me with my thoughts. I’ve strived all my life to be worthy of an opinion of my own—one that can be respected. So please, I’ll ask again, “Did I ever come of age?”

(This is Not real🥲 some parts may resemble me but…yeah)

It was my birthday today, grampa. My sixteenth to be exact. I wish you were here, As I told you about my year. My face flooded with silent tears.

You acted as if my father, So of course I was there for you too. For if my grandmother hadn’t remarried, I don’t know how I would have carried.

It’s my sixteenth to be exact, My quince was already over, Now I’m sitting in my dress, Waiting for you to face me.

Memories of my and you came, As if in a hurricane and tsunami. My face flooded full of silent tears, That could no longer be kept inside.

I’m now the age of a woman, Or so I’m told, Because I feel nothing like it, Because I’m still a scared little girl, Without her father, or his gentle love.

(Oh, and if you are a father who left their child- this is mainly for you, because your missing out on a wonderful childhood, yes, i understand some circumstances legally require you not to see ‘em, but what about calling? Texting? Just some ideas… Or if just you adopted a child, or had one, be grateful you had the chance to become a parent to them.🙃)

He’s coming round the mountaintop The stranger we all meet And he is not inclined to wait For those that drag their feet

He’ll wrap you in a tattered cloak Or a glorious one, should you reach and take it, And though he’ll never crush your throat His softest grip may break it

You met him once before Far back on a winding road When you were young And walked with lions He offered you humility And ancient truths to try on

You accepted him then, A younger soul, Hungering To pay his toll And now his price is paid A bargain long since made And here he comes again A stranger once more Offering you sweet relief A garden with open doors

“Prosperine” reads cross the gate, And yet you seem to fear You turn and look and spin and twist The garden’s not so near

You’re halfway to its pearly gates And once again a fool Dreaming of your wrongs and sins You fight to make him wait

You fear his grip That drew you forward Once so long ago

You stare into his eyes Or so you dearly try But listen close and you might A key rip through the lie

His name is ancient As is he The warden of the past And where you dream to be

But his truth it won’t bring you back You never will return And far away Before the gate Lies a cracking urn

So child listen close and hear The things that he may say And fear not for his reaper’s grip For you know, his name is Age

I started putting nickels in a mason jar. I’d find them on the street or in couch cushions. The jar sat in my closet, always hungry. As the jar grew, so did my anticipation. Once nearly full, I showed my parents, beaming. Befuddled by the jar’s purpose, my dad turned it to read the label. Painted on the side in red letters: “For Braces.” I couldn’t understand why that made my dad cry.